


Save The Last Dance

by alexabarton



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Teenagers, Ballet Dancer Sherlock, Eventual Happy Ending, Explicit Sexual Content, Falling In Love, First Kiss, First Time, M/M, Motorcycles, Mutual Pining, Rugby Captain John, Teen Angst, Teenlock, Virgin Sherlock, balletlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-25
Updated: 2017-03-12
Packaged: 2018-05-23 05:19:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 13,677
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6106164
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/alexabarton/pseuds/alexabarton
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"You have a motorbike then? You ride it to school?"</p>
<p>“Well I live about three miles away, so of course I ride it to school…but I never park here,” John explained. “People would just beg me for rides all the time and I couldn’t be arsed with the drama.”</p>
<p>He meant girls, really. Easily impressed girls like Mary to whom leathers were like some weird brand of crack. And he couldn’t afford the petrol just to tit around and show off giving joy rides, but he didn’t intend to tell Sherlock that either. Maybe something to do with the fact he’d sell his soul to have that bum ride pillion.....</p>
<p> </p>
<p>It's John and Sherlock's final year before Uni- the year before everything changes. One year to fall in love, for all the first-times, the break-ups and the make-ups. But they're headed down two different paths, so will they dance the last dance together or apart?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, this fic was inspired by 'that' Hozier video featuring Sergei Polunin that everyone must have seen by now! If not, I recommend you rectify this egregious oversight immediately. You won't regret it, I promise.

“You lot go on ahead, I’ll catch up in a minute,” said John, sweat beading his forehead from a brutal after-school rugby practice. He kicked off his sodden muddy boots and groaned, his knee caps clicking as he bent at the waist to pick them up.

“Coming down The Bull after?” Mike Stamford asked, already showered and changed, as he started walking backwards away from John and out of the changing rooms to follow the rest of the team.

“Get the first round in and I just might,” John laughed, swiping at his brow with the back of his hand. Muddy brown droplets splattered on the floor by his feet. Mike gave him a mock salute in reply, and winked conspiratorially before turning on his heel and jogging to catch up with the others. They’d already left for the start of their traditional Friday night post-practice drinking session, their last before the biggest game of the season. It has turned into a tradition of sorts, and by missing it, John fully expected a lengthy interrogation as to why he’d chosen to sack the lads off. And the inevitably filthy, and highly intrusive questions would centre on just who it was he’d stayed behind to meet with – Mary probably or maybe Sarah who he sat behind in Biology.

John waited just long enough to check he was really alone, then stripped off the rest of his filthy kit and showered quickly. Giving barely a cursory swipe with the towel he dressed and stuffed his kit in his bag and checked that the corridor had cleared before moving off again.

He turned deliberately, heading the opposite way to where he should have been going, skirting past the music block and the drama centre towards the crumbling, neglected dance studio unaware of the tell-tale trail of dirt he was leaving behind him, mind on something else entirely - someone, to be exact. But definitely not someone his mates would ever think of.

A slow, haunting melody drifted toward him. It echoed in the air of the tunnel-like space and raised goose-bumps all along John’s arms. He moved in closer, tip-toeing now on silent, damp, socked feet, his thumping heart racing ahead of the beat of the music.

John lifted himself up onto his toes and peered through the small glass panel in the door. He was rewarded almost immediately with the sight of a long lean body, almost naked but for flesh coloured tights, bending at the waist in front of the long bank of mirrors. One pale hand rested lightly on the barre that ran around three sides of the large square room, his back was turned away from the door. Thank god. John let out the breath he’d been holding in a rush and the glass ghosted white with his breath. The boy turned blurred and indistinct until John rubbed it off again, smearing condensation with the back of his sleeve.

The boy in the studio moved out into the centre of the room to take up his position to begin his sequence again. Firm, toned muscles flexed, each one perfectly defined. Rock hard muscular thighs, long graceful limbs and tats, oh fuck, tattoos on his arms and torso that John had never seen before, mere indistinct colours and shapes from here which John longed to see in close proximity. He sucked in a breath and willed his body to comply.

It was one thing to admire the physique of a fellow athlete, but quite another entirely to experience what was undoubtedly the start of an erection while watching said athlete perform. And that’s what Sherlock undoubtedly was, an athlete in every sense of the word, just as much as John and all his rugby mates, if not more so. If only they could see this, witness it for themselves, the sheer power, the strength, flexibility and endless stamina.

But no, John decided selfishly, if he could, he wanted to keep this for himself a little longer, his secret. It wasn’t as if they’d understand his fascination with Sherlock anyway, and he’d rather not listen while they ripped the boy to shreds over something they didn’t see as a real sport for _real_ men - whatever that was supposed to mean.

But much as he’d like to think otherwise, this was as close as John was ever likely to get to Sherlock Holmes - the great untouchable. Sherlock rarely spoke and barely interacted with the other students. When he wasn’t in the studio, he was holed up in the library or the labs and John would swear he’d never seen him in the dinner hall at lunch or break time either. John couldn’t quite decide if Sherlock was shy, existed solely on air, or if he simply just preferred to be alone.

As the music started up again, Sherlock moved with effortless grace across the room, and even though John knew squat about ballet he knew enough to spot good technique and flawless execution in the intricate series of steps, leaps and spins he sped through while barely breaking a sweat.

But someone else didn’t agree with him, apparently. The music snapped off rather abruptly and Sherlock stuttered to a halt, his beautiful expressive face twisted into an ugly scowl.

John could see his brow crease and hear the indistinct murmur of a second voice as another boy came into view, striding quickly across the studio. John knew him, or knew of him to be more accurate. Victor sodding Trevor, an insufferable posh twat who had a brand-new silver Audi in the sixth form carpark and a typical rich-boy attitude to match. John, who had neither money, nor the desire to suck up to those who had it, and despised their overwhelmingly sense of entitlement, would never have appeared on Victor’s radar if it hadn’t been for his prowess on the rugby field. He’d been a captain at his old school, and rumour had it, meaning it was probably true, Victor had been kicked out of three exclusive boarding schools in the past two years alone, and Milverton Road was the only place willing to take him on this far into his final year. It must have been a bit of a crushing blow to find yourself slumming it with the plebs instead of lording it at Eton with the rest of the posh twats being groomed to run the country. But that was the one saving grace at least, that Victor would be gone next year, off to some top university with a glowing recommendation regardless of how badly he did in his exams. It made John sick.

John watched in growing envy as he stood behind Sherlock who had paused in the centre of the room, practically manhandling him, pulling Sherlock’s leg back before pushing it up in small increments until positioned to his satisfaction. Sherlock squirmed on the spot, straining to hold the new position while Victor skimmed his hands along the length of his torso and bullied his arms into a more pleasing attitude.

More pleasing to him perhaps.

Sherlock moved again, in obvious disagreement, and no small amount of discomfort going by his expression, and got a smack on the arm and a shove between the shoulder blades for his pains. The blow sent him staggering forward a few paces, and Victor threw his hands up in disgust despite it being clearly his fault, and John’s hand was on the door before he could think to stop himself. He shoved it open roughly, or tried to, wincing as instead, the heavy, tight hinges protested and ruined his dramatic hero entrance. Sherlock and Victor, both whipped their heads around to face him.

“What?” Sherlock barked, exuding hostility from every pore, a far cry from his usual composed demeanour and John flinched back in genuine surprise.

Sherlock never reacted to anything. Not the taunts in the corridors, the feet poked out to trip him as he passed, the muttered insults and vicious rumours, he took it all in his stride, without a murmur. But it was far from being a passive response – John was of the opinion Sherlock really didn’t give a damn what anyone thought of him, but Sherlock’s silence only made things worse, had added to his eccentric reputation.

“Er,” John stammered, feeling a bit of an idiot, “Is everything okay in here?”

“Yes,” Sherlock snapped, confusion etched across his features. “Why on earth wouldn’t it be?”

Then, of course, Victor chose that moment to step up behind him, curling an arm around his waist in a move that John could only describe as possessive, like marking his territory. He fought back the urge to punch the smug bastard, part for having the nerve to touch Sherlock at all, and part for not caring what anyone else thought of him for doing something undoubtedly so intimate, right in John’s face.

“I…I just thought,” John stuttered, wrong-footed by the sudden surge of jealousy, but yet unable to draw his eyes away from Sherlock’s waist.

Victor’s fingers flexed and pressed against a patch of bare pale skin.

“Erm, nothing, my mistake I can see that now, just forget it.” He began to back away towards the door again, burning with mix of humiliation and another, darker urge to rip that hand away from Sherlock’s body and break every one of Victor’s fingers - slowly and as painfully as possible.

Definitely not good.

“John, isn’t it, John Watson?” Victor called after him. John stopped, one hand on the door frame trying to calm his breathing. “Yeah?” said John, his voice a little hoarse. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and frowned.

“Bit out of your way here, aren’t you?” continued Victor, “Shouldn’t you be shagging in the showers or downing vodka shots in The Bull with the rest of the rugby crowd? I didn’t think ballet was your scene, unless or course, you’ve come to admire the view …can’t say I blame you for that though,” he added, giving Sherlock’s waist another squeeze and flashing a triumphant smirk which the dancer pointedly ignored.

“Don’t be an idiot Victor,” Sherlock said instead, saving John from having to think up answer. He tugged free of Victor’s grasp in annoyance and stalked across the room to the barre. Sherlock snatched up a sports bottle from a gym bag nestled underneath it, pulled up the cap and took a long pull. John felt mesmerized, watching his throat work as he swallowed. A drop of water rolled down Sherlock's chin.

Sherlock wiped the back of his hand across his lips. “John’s meant to be here, I must have forgotten to mention it. Lestrade said as much when he spoke to me this morning, or don’t you remember? Or perhaps were you still stoned from last night?” he added, archly.

“Christ Sherlock, no need to take it so seriously. I’m only fucking around,” said Victor with a huff, hands held up in mock surrender. “John,” he said, inclining his head toward him, “please accept my humble apology for such unforgivable rudeness, of course, you’re perfectly welcome to stare at my boyfriend’s incomparable arse any time you want to.”

“Oh God…I am _not_ your boyfriend,” said Sherlock, exasperated, “why must you persist with this ludicrous fantasy? And John is certainly not here to ogle anyone, he’s here to arrange the photo-shoot, obviously.”

“The what now?” John threw back in a panic. It was like when someone said don't think of elephants. The moment that Victor had mentioned Sherlock's bum that was all he could bloody well think about. Sherlock's eyes went wide in realisation, and he raised his eyebrows skyward as if to say God save me from this roomful of utter imbeciles. John could hardly blame him. He was stuck on the drugs thing as well to be honest, and how Sherlock knew what Victor had been up to last night, and whether they'd done it together. Literally.

“The photo-shoot John, for the school magazine? Greg said you’d drop by sometime this week.”

He did? John thought to himself. John often helped out behind the camera for various official school events. He’d picked up the skills from his mother, an artist and photographer who'd specialised in weddings and studio portraits. But John knew he’d definitely remember if Greg, the editor and head of sixth form, had asked him to do something like this, so the only explanation was that Sherlock was giving him some kind of an out, an excuse, however flimsy.

Which was pretty damn amazing.

John hadn’t been aware until now that Sherlock had known who he was, let alone about his skill with a camera. They’d certainly never spoken beyond the odd word exchanged in mutual classes, the few that Sherlock had not been moved a year ahead of the rest of his peers.

“He did?” he said, out loud this time, wishing it not sound so much like a question, while he tried his best to ignore Victor’s simultaneous eye-roll. He cleared his throat in a hopeless attempt to sound more decisive, “Yeah, that’s right, yes he did.”

“I'd thought perhaps a change of location,” Sherlock said, waving a hand in the air, “the school gym seems rather pedestrian and the lighting is simply awful in here, I’m sure you agree.” He flashed John a smile, but something about it didn’t ring true. It was tense, brittle almost. “In fact, we can talk about it now if you like, I’m done for tonight.”

Sherlock picked up his bag and exchanged his ballet shoes for a pair of battered Vans and quickly pulled jeans and a hoodie on over his tights. He smiled up at John, “I have a location in mind that might work, actually. If you’re free now, I could show you tonight before we lose the light?”

“Um, yeah, okay, if you’re sure, that is…I mean we could do it some other time if you…”

“No,” Sherlock said abruptly, cutting John off, mid-flow, “no tonight’s fine, tonight’s good in fact. I could really do with the air.” And at that, he shot a final death glare at Victor, before stalking toward the gym door, bag in hand.

“I’ll just ring you later then,” Victor called after them, sounding faintly amused, rather than hurt at Sherlock’s outburst.

“Please don’t.” Sherlock snapped back at him, hoisting his bag up on his shoulder and barging his way through the door.

John could do little else but follow him out of the gym, and as the door slammed shut behind them, wondered what in hell he’d just stepped in the middle of.

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the first part of a longer scene which I've split into two chapters. Chapter three continues from Sherlock's point of view.
> 
> Apologies for my hopelessly tardy updates - there's been some laptop issues, namely, it dies with the slightest jiggle of the power cable. I now have a new battery, so no more excuses!

“Hey, I didn’t jump in the middle of something did I?” said John. His voice echoed back to him, strangely distorted down the long, empty stretch of corridor. Christ he could kick himself. He was such an impulsive idiot. Maybe Sherlock had just been trying to prove a point to Victor rather than intending he and John leave together.

There was definitely something weird going between the two of them.

John tried to think back, but couldn’t recall ever seeing Sherlock and Victor together before tonight. Sherlock kept his distance from pretty much everyone to John’s admittedly limited knowledge, the one exception being Molly Hooper his lab partner, and even then he barely seemed to tolerate her.

“No, why would you think that?” Sherlock said, staring straight ahead of him.

“Well, come on,” John said with a huff of disbelief, “you must know…he was being a massive knob back there. You shouldn’t let him treat you like that.”

“Treat me like what?” Sherlock said, and sounded genuinely puzzled. He looked at John properly then, tilting his head to one side.

John stared back wide-eyed. Sherlock couldn’t be serious, could he? John swallowed thickly. He felt a tight knot of anger in his chest but answered as calmly as he could. “Oh, you know – something about the way he touched you. He was pretty rough mate. I mean, look, he shoved you in the back, right between your shoulders, that must have _hurt_ …and you _fell_ …that’s why I burst in and…”

John stopped at the point his temper began to spiral again and bit his lip just a touch too hard. He pulled in a few deep breaths and silently willed himself to just shut the hell up. _Collecting waifs and strays_ his mother had called it, this incessant need to butt in and _save_ people whether they wanted him to or not. He knew had no right to question Sherlock this way and make it sound like an _accusation._  John didn’t even know them or know jack-shit about their relationship. He simply could have misjudged things. But John couldn’t shake the fact that this felt wrong, somehow.   

John braced for the snarky come-back, or for Sherlock to get angry and defensive and storm off, but the expected tirade never came and Sherlock didn’t move. “Ah yes, that’s right,” Sherlock answered coolly, tapping his index finger against his full bottom lip in an uneven beat. “You saw all this while busy _spying_ on my practice. How many times does that make it this week John…is it three, or perhaps tonight brings it to four?”

He was actually going to die right here. “You knew all along?”

“Of course I knew. I’m neither blind nor an idiot.” Sherlock said, and shrugged his shoulders and started to walk again. “Stealth is not your strong point John – you should work on that for next time.”

“Next time? I got busted. What makes you think there’ll be a next time?” John said. In truth it was a relief Sherlock didn’t think he was some sort of creepy, crazed stalker. John closed his mouth with an audible click. This was….not how he’d imagined their first conversation. It sounded much too close to flirtation.

“Well, you’ve been rather obvious, don’t you think?” Sherlock smirked, and as if he could read John’s mind added, “And he isn’t my boyfriend, just so you know, I didn’t lie to you back there. Victor’s barely what you could call a friend. We just happen to move in the same circles and it suits my purpose to keep him around for now.”

“Oh,” John said, failing to mask his disappointment. Victor would plainly disagree. Anyone with eyes to see he was crazy territorial where Sherlock was concerned. John wondered how someone as perceptive as Sherlock could willfully ignore all the evidence to the contrary.

“Relax. Its fine John…I won’t _say_ anything, though I seriously doubt anyone would care that you….”

“That I what?” John snapped, before he could finish. At the look on Sherlock’s face he regretted his outburst immediately. His face fell, and there was a brief moment of confusion before it too gave way to a blank mask of indifference.

They’d reached the double-doors that led outside, and both stepped out into the student carpark. The sun had almost set by now, and the street lamps had come on. The only car left, parked right in front of the building was Victor’s gleaming silver Audi.

“It doesn’t matter, you know. And I don’t mind if you watch me.” Sherlock said to break the awkward silence. He glanced around, but avoided John’s eyes as if expecting someone else to appear. He hugged his arms tight around his waist and gave a shiver, before finally dragging his gaze back to John.

“He was your ride home, Victor, I mean, wasn’t he?” John said. He felt guilty that his rashness and stupidity had put Sherlock in this position in the first place.

“Yes he was,” said Sherlock, rubbing his palms together briskly. His fingers were already a mottled purple from the cold.

John was struck with a sudden urge to take them between his own hands. Just to warm them up a bit, he tried to reason. He bit his lip and pushed that tempting thought somewhere far, far away. It was something he’d have to think about later, much later, when Sherlock wasn’t standing quite so close to him. “I could…” he said, “I mean, if you want…it’s hardly a luxury car, but…hey, no, forget it.” John stared down at his own feet, scraping a toe along the asphalt. Sherlock always made him feel so tongue-tied, but it came as a surprise to find it might be mutual.

“No, go on…I…I….you have a motorbike then? I think I’ve seen it. You ride it to school?”

John scrubbed a hand through his hair, feeling more than a little self-conscious. The effect Sherlock had on him was devastating. All he had to do was turn those piercing blue eyes on John and talk in that damn, deep sexy rumble he had going on, and his stomach would flip over like he’d missed a few steps on his way down a flight of stairs. It was beyond ridiculous. But this could be his only chance. Sherlock could lose interest and walk away any second now, or worse still, head back inside the school and wait for Victor to take him home in his stupid, fuck-off, shag-mobile. John tried to find the right words. Hadn’t it all been leading to this – the chance to talk to him alone, away from prying eyes. He couldn’t mess this up, it had to be worth one last try.

“Right and wrong,” he said. Sherlock looked nonplussed, and a cute little crinkle of bemusement appeared right in the centre of his two arched brows.

“Well…I live about three miles away, so I have to ride to school…but I never park here,” John tried to explain, as he gestured around the empty carpark. “People would just beg me for rides all the time and if I’m honest, I can’t be arsed with all the drama.” And by drama he meant girls, really. Easily impressed girls like Mary to whom leathers were like some weird brand of crack. And he couldn’t afford the petrol to just tit around and show off by giving joy rides. But he didn’t intend to tell Sherlock that either. Maybe something to do with the fact he’d sell his soul to have that bum ride pillion.

“So, I take it you store it in some secret underground lair like the bat-mobile then?” Sherlock said with an arch of his brow. He’d dropped the guard again. The careful construction - prickly with a dash of arrogant - he’d so been at pains to display back there in the gym had all but gone, leaving behind something softer, playful almost, with some of the sharper edges pared back.

“Nope,” said John, popping the ‘p’ with a smile. This felt good, much better, to joke around and tease a little. Sherlock didn’t seem to mind it. He shifted his weight to his right leg which tilted his body closer. “And I’m not some secret billionaire crime-fighting superhero with a tragic past and a death-wish either… just in case you were wondering.” John added, lowering his voice to almost a whisper.

Sherlock peered up through impossibly long lashes. “Well, that’s certainly a shame.”

And there it was again. John felt a hot flush of guilt, and a twinge of something much more complex, and his smile faltered again. “God…you have to know…I’m sorry about barging in earlier…I…I really didn’t mean to cause trouble…”

Trouble?” Sherlock scoffed, “Victor lives to cause trouble. Just ignore him. I try to. And it’s not a fault, the way you acted…you were just looking out for me, it was…nice, though unnecessary. But thank you. Plenty wouldn’t have bothered.”

“Hey, it was…not a problem,” John said.  “Look, since I’ve obviously fucked up your ride tonight, and you can hardly stand out here in the cold without a coat on much longer or you’ll catch your death, the least I can do is help you get home.” John was pretty cold himself. The wind had kicked up, and he flipped up the collar of his jacket, balling his hands up tightly in his pockets to warm them. He glanced at Sherlock, dressed in the clothes he’d rushed out of the gym in, just a light cotton hoodie with nothing underneath it. John’s eyes drifted down to the flash of white skin where the zipper had slipped just a little too low.

Sherlock gave a quick nod of assent and they set off again - John in the lead this time. They crossed the deserted carpark and out of the school grounds, turning right, directly onto the high street. It was still the tail end of rush hour in town and the start of the weekend proper, so the roads were backed up with residual traffic and the pathways crammed with pedestrians which Sherlock weaved through with a practiced ease. John was less fortunate, and his progress was marked by a stream of muttered apologies.

“It’s Friday,” said Sherlock, out of nowhere, when John caught up with him, apparently not having noticed. He reached into the side pouch of his backpack and pulled a soft grey beanie down over his hair.

Dark tendrils curled softly around Sherlock’s forehead and neck, and as they passed beneath a street lamp, the artificial glow turned his eyes almost silvery and ethereal. John’s breath caught in his chest. “Yes,” he panted.

Sherlock’s gaze drifted off to the right, as he thought. “You have rugby practice Friday nights, and then you drink at The Bull till either someone vomits or start’s a fight and you all get chucked out.”

John gave a snort of laughter. It was a wonderfully accurate assessment. “Yeah, that sounds fair…go on.”

“But then, why would you ride your bike to school on a Friday…you could hardly ride it home again drunk, and you wouldn’t want to leave it somewhere off premises with poor security overnight. You love your bike. It was a …gift? You would never take the risk it might be stolen or damaged.”

“And therein lies the mystery I guess,” John teased, bumping shoulders.

“ _John_.”

A glow spread through his chest. In another time and place perhaps, he’d kill to have Sherlock say his name like that, with that tiny, exasperated, slightly pleading edge to it. It felt as if they’d been doing this for years. “You’re almost there,” he said in encouragement, “just have a guess.”

“I hate guessing,” Sherlock pouted, and his bottom lip poked out like a petulant child. His front teeth closed over it, as he bit down in concentration, and John found he had to look away again because some things were too much. If Sherlock saw his face he would _know_.

“Some sort of lock-up garage then.”

“Close,” John said, “But not quite.”

Sherlock gave a huff of frustration and crossed his arms in front of his chest.

John heard a sharp intake of breath just as his arse vibrated.

He slipped the phone from his back jeans pocket, took a glance at the screen and quickly pressed reject.

“If you need to get that it’s alright, don’t mind me,” Sherlock said as they skirted round a group of women, probably out on a Hen night. They were all decked out in hot pink t-shirts with their names emblazoned across the back in sequins. One, who must have been the bride John guessed, sported a silver plastic tiara too, and cheap veil with condoms randomly tacked on with safety pins. Another, who looked old enough to be his mum took a cheeky pinch at his bum as they squeezed past. He let out an undignified squeak, and Sherlock, who somehow had somehow managed to avoid their amorous attentions, smirked at him and broke into a deep, throaty chuckle.

 “Oi! Not funny,” he scolded, ignoring the chorus of wolf-whistles. Good-natured as it had been, he could fully understand why girls hated it when boys did it. Christ, a pack of women could be scary.

“Hmm, I disagree. Yes it is.”

John huffed fondly and shook his head. "Yeah, maybe."

They’d been passing The Bull at the time, where John’s mates would no doubt, be stood in their usual spot in the nook by the pool table – the perfect place to check out the sixth-form girls who always gathered in a cluster by the bar, specifically there because the rugby team was. And on any other night John would be right in the midst of it, drinking too much and joining in with the lairy banter. But not tonight. Because right now, on this night, it sounded too loud, raucous and altogether unappealing in a way he’d never considered before. John knew exactly what, or rather who, had changed his mind. He stole another quick glance across at Sherlock, hoping against hope he hadn’t misread this, that there was a spark of something brewing, and when he felt the message come through moments after, John didn’t need to look to know exactly what it would say:

_You coming tonight or what John? Pizza at mine after? – Mary_

Pizza – yeah right, complete with winky-face emoji.

The decision was easy. “No, no it’s fine,” John said, as he turned his attention back to Sherlock, Mary pushed firmly to the back of his mind. “It’s nothing that can’t wait.”

“You have a girlfriend,” Sherlock said, his face a careful blank.

“What? No I don’t,” said John. It wasn’t exactly a lie, and when Sherlock’s brow creased in disbelief, he knew he had to come clean, no secrets. “Okay, so we might have hooked up once or twice….but she is definitely not my girlfriend, right?”

“But she…is she aware of that?”

“What? No. Sherlock…we’re not together, we never have been,” John rushed to clarify, “I’m not _with_ anyone honestly,” and before he could lose his nerve he blurted, “how about you then…girlfriend…boyfriend? Which is fine, to have a boyfriend I mean.”

Sherlock looked adorably wide-eyed for a second, but shook his head, seeming almost shy again. It confused John, this juxtaposition of the brashly arrogant and the bashful and uncertain. What was his deal? Everyone had a deal. But John couldn’t figure Sherlock out.

“I know its fine. And the answer’s no, I don’t have a boyfriend.” Sherlock answered.

Good, John thought, and smiled. That’s… good.

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please, lovely readers, take a moment to read this before you dive in to chapter 3. This is only half the chapter I meant to bring to you all because I stupidly fell victim to a scam. I'd been having a few issues with word 2010, so when I received a phone call Friday lunchtime from microsoft (obvs it wasn't them, really) informing me of various error reports, I thought it was genuine. To cut to the chase, after gaining remote access they said I had to buy a new windows licencing thingy (My memory is hazy on details now) or I would be shut out of my computer and any data I had would be lost. Of course I panicked, and almost 'bought' one of their scam 'packages', but my credit card company blocked the purchase pending phone authorisation. At this point, I stepped out of the room and rang my 23 year old daughter who immediately said mam it's a scam. When I refused to pay they then wouldn't release my computer, and to my eternal shame I was practically begging, and I could see the bastards clicking through all my open tabs ( it was all AO3 gay porn LOL). My daughter told me to hold down the power to force a shut-down to cut the connection. These people are despicable, heartless amoral ass-holes. I spent most of friday crying and shaking, I burst into tears in the bank while explaining to a lovely lady what had happened and why I needed to cancel my credit card. I barely remember the walk back to my car because I disassociated. They didn't get my money, but they have robbed me of my peace of mind and never have I felt like such a first-class useless, clueless middle-aged fool. If it weren't for my daughter and her wonderful boyfriend it could have been a whole lot worse - they calmed me down, told me to buy a 16GB flash drive and spent the weekend with a tech-savvy friend running scans and copying all my word documents. I don't have to tell you all how utterly devastating it would have been to lose all my work - the second part of this chapter is on there and some unfinished fics too. But still, I no longer feel safe using that laptop online because who the fuck knows what undetectable shit they may have put on it. Luckily, this first half was saved to draft so now I've calmed down a little here it is at long last.  
> Remember friends - MICROSOFT DON'T CALL YOU AT HOME. IF ANYONE CALLS, CLAIMING TO REPRESENT THEM, HANG UP, IT'S A SCAM.

 

 

 

 

John brought them both to a halt in front of a long, shabby building, tucked around the corner from the high street, well out of sight of the clothes shops and coffee chains selling their overpriced lukewarm Arabica. It was set back from the pavement, the sounds from the street muffled from here, and a long, low wall created a border between it and a small tarmac forecourt where some older model cars and a white transit van were parked neatly side by side. The hand-painted sign above read, ‘Watson’s Auto Repairs’ in a faded, flaking blue block print, outlined in white and black .

So, not a lock-up garage, Sherlock mused, an actual car mechanic’s workshop. It was clearly a family business -- John’s family.

John beamed up at him, but whether from Sherlock’s response to his frankly, quite ridiculous stream of questions, (I mean, honestly, shouldn’t it be obvious that Sherlock was both woefully single, _and gay_ , for god’s sake – or was John really _that_ unobservant?) or because he expected more of a reaction to their current location, Sherlock couldn’t quite decide.

His expression read pride and hope, but tainted with a bitter edge of uncertainty.

He wants me to like it, Sherlock realised, or at least, to not look down on him as others had obviously done. It angered Sherlock, the thought that others might’ve dared to judge John on the basis of his family background, as if by earning a good, honest living in sweat and dirt had rendered John somehow unworthy, or less than. But unsurprising, Sherlock conceded, given the inverse proportion of money to brains of the average pupil in their year group, that, and the fact John was clearly there on his own merit having won one of the few academic scholarships available. John was so much more than just a member of the rugby team.

Not for the first time Sherlock wished he wasn’t quite so… Sherlock-y. Other people got this, how to interact with people, make inoffensive small-talk, and they didn’t even have to try. But he understood this much, how things might progress between them hinged heavily on giving the appropriate response.

Sherlock, for his part genuinely loved it, but for both their sakes, opted not to gush about it out loud and thus reveal his admittedly, fast growing hideous John-crush. He tried a simple smile instead coupled with a quick nod of approval, which seemed all that was required of him, thank god.

John grinned back at him, pleased, and gestured for Sherlock to follow him in. They entered through open double doors of corrugated steel into the cluttered workshop space beyond. A tiny blue hatch-back sat jacked up on ramps bordering a deep yet narrow pit, the tyres of which were stacked off against the wall to one side. There was a strong, pervading smell of engine oil and petrol. Sherlock felt oddly light-headed from the imagined fumes and tried not to breathe too deeply. Various tools of which Sherlock couldn’t for the life of him put a name to, were scattered around the resulting carcass of metal like some bizarre frozen tableau, the players having recently stepped off-stage. They skirted around it, a circuitous route with Sherlock careful not to step on anything that might be valuable or important. John headed left toward a tiny, grubby office space, Sherlock nearly up on his heels. To call it a room might be going a little too far, he thought, when really it was little more than a cubby-hole tucked in the back with thin plywood walls inset with plexi-glass. It was as cold as the workshop, and the sole source of heat, from a small, three-bar heater set just inside the propped-open door, barely made a dent in it. An over large desk took up most of the remaining space inside and the over-flowing file cabinets on the back wall, the rest of it.  Every single surface was dulled with years of engine oil and dust, and the collective day-to-day grime tracked through from the workshop on hands and feet and clothes. Sherlock hovered by a pile of discarded engine parts and made a somewhat futile attempt to defy the laws of physics by somehow occupying negative space. Any sudden movement seemed likely to result in death or serious injury, or both. Maybe, he ought to hold his breath…

“Hey there Dad, you working a late one?” John said to the man huddled over the desk. His face was buried deep in a mountain of paperwork and he looked up, startled, at the sound of John’s voice.

“John! Christ, I didn’t hear you come in there,” he said, and pressed a hand against his chest in that exaggerated, slightly fake way people did when acting more surprised than they actually were. “Just a few more invoices to sort through,” he sighed, and gave a wan smile, shuffling the A4 sheets into an untidy pile before stuffing them into a buff-coloured binder. He put his pen down and rubbed at his eyes. “Should be done around eight though, if you can wait that long to eat. Oh!”  He attempted to stifle a jaw splitting yawn and sat up taller.  “Sorry, I didn’t see your friend there John. Who’s this then?”

Sherlock’s desire to melt into the background increased exponentially under Watson senior’s assessing look, and so of course, he had to go and blush – horribly. It really didn’t help matters that John’s father looked exactly as Sherlock imagined John might look twenty years or so from now. He had deep crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, which he obviously did a lot of when he wasn't fretting over fiscal matters, the same unruly mop of blond hair that simply didn’t want to behave itself with bits sticking up at the back and a cowlick at the front from where his hand had been pressed against his brow in concentration. The colour itself defied definition, light brown and gold and blond shot through with copious amounts of steely grey. He had the same easy manner as his son too and was undeniably still a very attractive man. That is, if you were into older men – not that Sherlock had given it much thought or anything. But unlike his son, he looked pinched and tired, worried even, though it was obvious he was trying to hide it from his son.

John’s hand squeezed lightly at Sherlock’s arm. “Dad, this is Sherlock, Sherlock, this is my Dad, Graham.”

Watson senior smiled. “Well Sherlock, you’re honoured. John almost never brings his friends round. It’s really nice to meet you son.”

Sherlock wasn’t sure how he ought to respond. No-one ever thought it was nice to meet him. At best he’d been told it was an interesting experience – but not the good sort of interesting. He was quite alarmed at how utterly tongue-tied he felt, which was not his normal state of being by any stretch of the imagination. Perhaps now was not the time to admit he’d never been invited back to a friend’s let alone interact with said friends’ parents once there. Come to think of it, he never voluntarily had friends. The closest he’d come in that regard being Victor, maybe, or Molly Hooper, who in her awkward bumbling way was marginally more intelligent than the common herd and who he could actually manage to hold a decent conversation with once her nerves at Sherlock’s proximity settled and she’d regained control of her vocal chords. In a totally abstract way Sherlock was aware that he should have responded to the question by now, but he couldn’t think past John’s hand on his arm. Something about friends, and John, and the…sun?

John pulled a face at his dad and answered for him, saving Sherlock further humiliation. “Well that’s probably because you warned me not to…on pain of death Dad, remember?”

“Hmm, yeah, I might have done, actually. But you know that’s because they’re mostly a bunch of mouthy arseholes who can’t resist fiddling with shit they shouldn’t. Hey, speaking of which. It’s Friday,” he said, abruptly echoing Sherlock’s earlier question. “Aren’t you supposed to be out with Mike tonight?” Graham Watson pushed back from the desk to take the finished sheaf of invoices over to one of the filing cabinets. He dragged open the one closest to Sherlock, stuffed the binder roughly inside and shut it with a clang. Sherlock pressed back and tried to take up even less space to get out of his way, but which only pushed him further into John’s left side. He could feel John’s body-heat, and a tantalising hint of firm muscle.

Sherlock stomach flipped at the exact same moment he felt John tense. He took his hand away from Sherlock’s shoulder in an obviously self-conscious movement and dropped it back down to hang by his side instead, where he clenched and unclenched his fingers. Graham Watson paused with his hand still pressed against the drawer and looked back and forth between the two of them. There was a question there, and in answer John took a definite step away from Sherlock’s side. It felt like a slap in the face. The reality, though, was a walk over to a rack on the wall where he unhooked a heavy bunch of keys.

“I have a thing…a project, sort of, that Sherlock asked me to help him with.” John said in a fake breezy tone, carefully schooling his features before he turned back around. “Which you should be pleased about Dad, I would’ve thought, seeing as I won’t be hungover in bed all day tomorrow.”

“Well in that case, I reckon Sherlock should steal you away from that other lot more often then. Do you know Sherlock,” John’s dad swung around to face Sherlock instead, “he’s an absolute bloody nightmare the day after a Friday night out. Sits wrapped up in a duvet on the sofa all day, whinging about his head and eating crap, worse than Harry when she’s on her….”

“Dad! Could we not? Please?” John interrupted, throwing a terrified glance Sherlock’s way. Even Sherlock knew John’s dad was only teasing now. His own parents had little time and even less inclination to engage with their sons like this. If he was honest, Sherlock rarely even saw his parents, and Mycroft, his brother, was constantly busy at his new job in London and hadn’t been home for weeks. Besides, such behaviour naturally implied an element of affection and familiarity between the parties wholly absent in his own case as Sherlock couldn’t imagine a family more emotionally and physically remote as his own. Little wonder then, that he was touch-starved. Little wonder he would cling to any physical contact like a life-raft, be it good, bad, or indifferent. But John mustn’t know that. John thought he was normal for god’s sake. Sherlock felt his thoughts spiralling again and forced himself to stop.

Graham Watson cleared his throat. “Just don’t stay out too late,” he said. “But if you do,” he threw John a significant look again. “Just be quiet when you come in or Harry will do her nut, so erm...just keep that in mind, if you, uh…” he waved a hand, gesturing helplessly. “Do whatever it is you boys do…”

“Oh God,” John groaned under his breath. “Sherlock, c’mon, we’re going.”

“Oh, and John?”

John stopped and looked up, visibly cringing.

“Safety first.” Graham winked at them both.

“I’m going to bloody kill him,” John muttered half under his breath, grabbing hold of Sherlock’s wrist.  Fingers digging in just the right side of too hard, he all but man-handled Sherlock back out toward the open door back into the workshop. They had almost made it through, but years of ingrained politeness made Sherlock dig in his heels, stop and twist around. “It was really nice to meet you sir.”

Graham Watson considered him for a moment, and then with a smile and a nod, which may or may not have been approval, turned his attention back to the overflowing in-tray.

“I am so, so sorry,” John spluttered as he pulled the door closed with a click. He dropped Sherlock’s wrist again. “My dad can be a bit…he just takes the piss…constantly. Thinks it’s funny. But, yeah, I’m sure he didn’t mean anything by it…he meant the bike…that’s why he said safety…you know that, right?”

“Mm,” Sherlock hummed in reply. John was no idiot. Well, no more so than the average, but as far as Sherlock could tell the double meaning had clearly been intended. His father _knew,_ for god’s sake, and more to the point was absolutely fine with it. So, could John simply be embarrassed on Sherlock’s behalf thinking he might be offended?  No. That couldn’t be it surely. Hadn’t he made his preferences clear? Perhaps he had been too subtle and John was wary of crossing an invisible line, then. Sherlock admitted confusion. If John had taken the trouble to introduce him to his father, and in doing so, had willingly endured what he knew would prove to be an uncomfortable encounter then why try to brush it off as some kind of misguided joke? Clearly they'd discussed this at some point, the real possibility that one day John might bring someone home in a romantic capacity who was…not a girl.

Perhaps he was being presumptuous. Perhaps he'd misread the situation entirely.

But John being there tonight was no accident. Sherlock had been watching John watching him for weeks now. And this was it, his chance to make a good impression -- if his mouth didn’t fuck it up first.

"Hey." John said, and startled him out of his thoughts. “Having second thoughts?”

“No,” Sherlock stammered, caught off guard. While he’d been lost in his head, John had wheeled a motorbike toward him – _the_ bike. It was black and silver with flashes of red down the sides, much, much larger than he’d thought, and seriously bloody intimidating. Sherlock’s mouth went dry. He simply didn’t _do_ this sort of thing. Not ever. The risk of injury was much too high. The list of activities he was forbidden to engage in had grown ever longer with each passing year he’d danced. Horse-riding, ice-skating, roller-blading, skateboards, were all categorically banned. But somehow, his desire to impress had led to this completely reckless decision. All for a ride home with the best looking boy in school.

Sherlock bit at his lip, worrying the skin between his teeth. He felt slightly nauseous, as John stuffed his dirty kit-bag into the seat cavity, unhooked the spare helmet (safety first!) and tossed it across to him. He caught it, just, fumbled a little, and saw his own worried face staring back in the polished surface.

“Okay then, that's good, Sorry, it won’t exactly do your hair any favours.” John seemed oblivious to Sherlock’s inner turmoil as he picked up his own and jammed it unceremoniously on his head. “Hey,” he said more gently, when Sherlock remained frozen, “Are you sure you want to do this? No pressure. Honest. We can always catch a bus if you’d rather not, I don’t mind.”

“Its fine, and yes, I’m sure.” Sherlock choked out the words, swallowing past the lump in his throat. His hair was a tangled mess anyway and after two hours sweating in the studio and then stuffed underneath a woollen hat outside, the damage was long since done. Feeling self-conscious, nonetheless, he turned his back first, dragged off the beanie and stuffed down it as far as it would go in his pocket. He pulled the helmet on. It was a snug fit which pressed into his temples like a vice.

“Better put this on too.”

John held out a jacket made of worn brown leather. Sherlock took it, almost reverently. It was old, and buttery soft to the touch, rubbed almost shiny at the elbows, and Sherlock felt the warmth and weight of it as he dropped his bag onto the floor at his feet and shrugged it on, on top of his hoodie. He wondered who it belonged to.

“Here, let me help you.” John came up beside him. He held his hands out first, as if asking for permission to touch, and when Sherlock gave a nod of assent he reached out toward the strap which dangled loose beneath Sherlock’s chin. Sherlock moved his own hands out of the way, intensely aware of how close they were again. John cupped his chin between finger and thumb and tilted Sherlock’s head to check the fit was right. He tried desperately not to stare, aware he was close enough to count each freckle on John’s face, see the thickness of his lashes, his lips slightly parted and... Sherlock held his breath.

John seemed so calm now it was maddening. Sherlock was frankly alarmed at the staccato beat of his own heart as it pounded in his chest. He could feel the pulse in his neck jump in tandem, and sucked in another shaky breath as John’s hands worked beneath his chin to secure the strap. Finally, John took a half-step back. He seemed satisfied it wouldn’t fall off now. Sherlock exhaled. “That should do it, I think.” said John. This time Sherlock couldn’t fail to miss the almost hungry way John’s eyes raked over him. “Are you ready?”

Sherlock’s skin prickled in panic and any answer was lost when his throat made a weird kind of choking sound. Of course he wasn’t ready. What sort of stupid, idiot question was that to ask? He might have to revise his opinion of John because he’d never be ready, not ever. In fact, he’d be lucky to stay on the thing at all. Christ, he realised, in horror, he was going to have to touch John’s body. God, this was awful. He really hadn’t thought this thing through. John looked up at him expectantly, and Sherlock avoided his gaze feeling oddly top-heavy as he bent down to grab his discarded kit bag. He slung it back over his shoulders.

“Have you ever ridden before?”

“No,” Sherlock shook his head. What would be the point in lying when his reaction had made it pretty damn obvious? John must think him such a child. He glared back, and silently dared John to laugh at him, which he didn’t. But Sherlock never did know when to quit. “My mother doesn’t approve of motorcycles or the people who ride them, and if my brother were to find out I’d been on one, I think he’d probably kill me,” he finished, a tad defiant. Great, now he sounded like a snob, a baby and a tit. Well done, Sherlock, what a turn-on.

“Wait - is that literally or metaphorically?” John’s grin split his face as he confidently slung one thick, jean-clad thigh across the motorcycle saddle to straddle it and gave a wriggle to get comfortable. Sherlock started to sweat again despite the cool interior of the workshop. He flinched as John gunned the engine and the bike sprang to life with a roar.

“Believe me, knowing Mycroft, it would be literal.” Sherlock raised his voice to be heard above the noise. It wasn’t an exaggeration. Not really. There was no doubt about Mycroft’s very real capability in that regard, but there was absolutely no need for John to know the twisted ins and outs of his family quite yet or their capacity for state-sanctioned murder.

“Well, I guess we’ll just have to keep it our secret, then,” John said. His foot hit the kickstand and deftly flipped it and patted the space on the saddle behind him. “Hop on then. I won’t bite.” Sherlock thought that might not be true, and wondered what it said about him that he hoped he might find that out sometime soon.  With one hand on John’s shoulder for balance, he swung his leg across the saddle, much less graceful than John had managed. He gave a little wriggle to find the right balance and felt the odd sensation of the cool leather seat and thrumming vibration and heat from the engine. It rippled up his spine in waves and made his teeth clack together. Sherlock clenched his jaw tight to still them. Now, where exactly should he put his hands?  For lack of any feasible alternative Sherlock held John’s waist. And now - now it felt a little too real.

 “You'll have to hold on a little tighter,” John called back to him. “Come forward a little. Good. That’s it.” Sherlock shuffled closer.  He steeled himself, and dipped his hands beneath John’s jacket, digging his fingers into cool cotton instead of slippery leather to feel the taught muscle underneath. It was just as good as he’d imagined it would be, better even. Sherlock willed himself to relax and breathe. He could do this.  He _knew_ how to do this. It was just like a dance, like a pas des deux, where they'd need to move together, and John would be dangerously restricted if Sherlock held himself too stiff or clung round John’s middle like a limpet. He sucked in a breath and held it, then let it out again slow, and steady. He did it again, and then again until his pulse stopped hammering quite so fast and dropped down to something resembling normal. The message had yet to reach his limbs, which felt weird and floaty, like they weren’t attached to his body. They were close enough that Sherlock’s chest was pressed tight along the length of John’s spine and it felt safe, and warm, and…right. He allowed his mind wander and imagined how it might feel, what everyone would say if they rode into school like this one day. How everyone would stare at him, at both of them, and wonder if it meant they were together, that John had chosen him. Everyone knew John Watson’s bike was sacred and Sherlock would be the first one, the only one ever allowed to ride it with him. He let out a sigh, wishing it could be true but at the same time softly scolding himself for such useless, childish fantasies.

Come Monday, it would be like tonight night had never even happened.

“So, where are we going, then? Am I taking you home, or somewhere else?”

John’s voice came out strange and muffled as he twisted around in the seat toward Sherlock.

“Oh, right, um, if you take the ten sixty-eight towards Farnham, about two miles on you’ll see a turn-off, left. It’s says private road, but just ignore that, its fine.”

“So we won’t get chased off with a shotgun or arrested?”

“What? No! Of course not.”

“Fair enough. I’ll hold you to that.” John knocked down the visor on his helmet. Belatedly, Sherlock remembered to do the same, and felt a momentary surge of claustrophobia as his own humid breath ghosted back in his face. Appalling dietary habits aside, he was thankful not to have eaten since breakfast when his empty stomach gave a lurch in protest.

“Okay. Ready?”

John didn’t give him time to answer this time and gunned the engine, blissfully ignorant of Sherlock’s minor mental breakdown behind him. _No, no, no._ John ramped up the revs and the bike shot forward through the open double doors of the workshop. The shock made Sherlock cling tighter. He squeezed his thighs against the saddle until they burned with the effort needed  _to just stay on this thing._ _Don’t fall off. Hold tight. Please don’t die, for god’s sake_.

They were out in the cool night air before he dared crack open his eyes again, blinking rapidly in the fading light, while they waited for a suitable break in traffic. Sherlock was ready this time when John indicated left and took off again, weaving through the early evening rush hour with a practised ease. It was…not at all what he’d expected…it was terrifying yes, but in a way that was oddly exhilarating. Sherlock tried to relax into the motion, loosening his claw-like grip on John’s sides just enough to ease out the cramps in his fingers.

The wind stung his cheeks raw, and the cold cut through him to the bone, but Sherlock barely noticed it now. Everything had narrowed down to the rush of light and colour, slick, wet tarmac that glittered like diamond beneath the wheels of John's bike.

 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Fast bikes. Fast boys. And an almost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've fretted and faffed and fumbled my way through this chapter for fear nothing I could ever produce would be good enough. Series Four has put an end to all that. BBC Sherlock Reichenbached itself. It's up to us now fandom friends.

“How much further?”

John slowed down, almost crawling along a road which, from what he could gather in the dark amounted to little more than a dirt track or a bridle-way of some sort. It was bordered on both sides by a stretch of unkempt hedgerow, and this far out of town the only source of light came from the single bright beam of his headlight. It danced across the uneven surface ahead of them so that the various pot-holes and furrows, so easy to pick out in daylight made for an infinitely more dangerous journey at night.  Nothing that John couldn’t handle of course, but that had been a solo ride, while this time, he was achingly aware of Sherlock’s solid presence at his back, and the way he held John’s waist in a death-grip.

“Fifty feet maybe, give or take.” John heard Sherlock huff through tightly clenched teeth. His voice strained from the effort it took to set his jaw and stop his teeth from clacking. “You’ll see a break to the right in the treeline – there’s a clearing. Turn in there.” The words came out in a series of breathless gasps muffled where his face pressed into the shoulder of John’s jacket, and a shiver ran through his body at the contrast of heat on cold damp skin.

He gave a stiff nod in acknowledgment and fought to keep the bike steady and their combined weight centred as they jerked and bobbed along the final few metres of track. He was only mildly successful, failing to avoid a deeper pit that had filled up with rain from the recent downpour. Filthy water splashed their feet and legs soaking through John’s jeans right up to the knees. Something he might come to regret later.

 The track led as Sherlock had said, to a small copse of trees packed tight together, and a little further still, there was the break, just where Sherlock said it would be. John swung right into the clearing relieved to have finally arrived, and brought the bike to a smooth controlled stop in a patch of stubby grass. He cut the engine, and peered into the utter dark that surrounded them. After the noise of the road and the engine for close to three miles the silence seemed absolute. John gave an involuntary shiver which had little to do with the cold wet denim currently clinging to his shins.

John tugged the helmet from his head. He ran an absent hand through his hair, mussing up the flattened tufts that had stuck to his scalp with a thin film of sweat.

Sherlock slid off the back of the bike, still holding on to John’s waist with one hand as if he didn’t quite trust his legs to hold his weight yet. He was quite right as it happened. John felt him stagger a little while loosening his grip just long enough to reach up and tug his own helmet free. And oh, wasn’t that so bloody annoying? John watched in consternation as Sherlock’s hair bounced back into impossibly perfect waves that framed his pale face like a bloody work of art, or something. Stop staring for god’s sake. John cleared his throat to break the moment of awkward tension as almond eyes narrowed in confusion.

“Um, so…” he stuttered, glancing around, “what’s so special about this place then?”

As his eyes adjusted, John peered past Sherlock to see a dark, ominous shape that loomed out of the trees in front of them. He could see high, grey stone walls and a steep pitched roof squatting at the edge of the clearing. There were gaps that may have been windows at one time but the lack of reflection made him think – no glass. The building seemed abandoned and likely in a state of advanced dereliction too, if the tangle of undergrowth surrounding it was anything to go by and the trees and bushes which encroached on the clearing itself suggested no-one had lived here for some years. It was, in John’s opinion, an odd location for a home, looking to his eyes almost like an image from a fairy-tale book. Not the sweet innocent Disney kind, but more like the dark, creepy, really bad things happen here kind.

And John thought it was amazing.

He gave a rough bark of laughter that was equal parts surprise and delight to which Sherlock turned to peer at him, a slight frown marring his face.

“I think it’s incredible. Fantastic,” John said, smile wide and genuine.

“You really think so?” Sherlock failed to conceal the uncertainty in his voice, as if he’d expected ridicule instead.

John nodded reassurance. “Of course I do. Yeah. It’s not quite what I was expecting, but it’s great. Really.”

Sherlock’s sigh of relief was audible and John wondered if he’d ever done this before, brought someone here with such obvious hope that they’d love the place, a place which obviously meant a lot to him, and had those hopes crushed, probably in a cruel way judging by how guarded he seemed.  A spark of irrational anger at whoever that nameless idiot had been ignited in John’s chest.

“It was my mother’s, but you could say it belongs to me now,” Sherlock said with a curve of a smile on his lips. He shyly ducked his head and turned away to hide his face from view, and without checking to see if John bothered to follow, he headed off on still-unsteady legs toward what John guessed should have been the grand front entrance to the _barn, church, house thing_ , but which from this distance looked like an angry slash of black cut deep into the stone. John shivered. There was a definite something about this place, an unreal, almost dreamlike quality. Who knew what lay beyond that dark, gaping doorway? Well, Sherlock, for one thing, who had disappeared from view again, his lanky shape swallowed by impenetrable shadow. John held his breath for a heartbeat, ears straining to hear any sounds of movement from inside, and he let it all out in a huff of relief as Sherlock called to him with an impatient, “Oh do hurry up and come in John, before it starts to rain again.”

“What did you mean back there, about it being yours?” John asked as he scrambled to catch up to Sherlock’s rapidly fading voice.

“Just that. Exactly what I said.” Sherlock’s voice echoed back to him.

“Come on but… it can’t be… not really?”

Sherlock loomed out of the doorway mere inches in front of his face. “Why? Do you think I would lie to you?” John squawked in surprise and stepped back, catching his foot in a tangle of roots. His ankle twisted painfully beneath him. Damn it that hurt.

“Of course I don’t. Look, I guess this is payback for the ride over, right?” With as much dignity as he could muster, John shook his foot free. “ Um, sorry.”  John said, feeling guilty and a little chastened. Guilty because he’d felt Sherlock’s grip tighten in fear. Guilty because _he had liked that._

“I’m hardly in the habit of fibbing John.” Sherlock chuckled, darkly, “Or riding death traps in the dark. But in the spirit of honesty, believe me when I say you’re every parent’s nightmare, mine included.”

Yeah, but I don’t really know you at all, do I, thought John. Or anything you might be in the habit of doing. He must be mad, coming way out here in the middle of nowhere late at night with someone he barely knew. Because it was true. What did he even know about this boy other than the fact he was impossibly gorgeous and unattainable, bossy and unpredictable and way, way out of John’s league?

“But you still did it anyway,” said John.

“Yes. I did.”

“And?”

“I’m… not sorry.”

“So, maybe you’d like to do it again some time?”

“Try and stop me.”

John felt the intensity of Sherlock’s gaze. “Well, um, good,” he croaked, swallowing thickly to clear the lump in his throat. “Glad we cleared that up then.”

“Quite.” Sherlock’s mouth ticked up at one side in a knowing smirk. “Shall we go inside now?”

Sherlock turned away without waiting for an answer, and John shook his head, laughing a little to himself. So, Sherlock _had_ been scared, even if only a little, but had climbed right on despite all that, placed his trust in someone he barely knew, in _John_ , of all people. And he wanted to do it again. John, for his part had loved every second, of the wind in his face, the open road, the risk, the speed, Sherlock clinging tightly to his waist. Oh God, especially that bit.

He turned to follow Sherlock inside, and almost on cue the rain started up in earnest, falling in fat, heavy drops that smelled of leaf mould and the sharp tang of ozone. There was a storm heading their way. John ducked through the doorway just as the deluge began. It sliced through the thick canopy to spatter the ground below and drummed against the roof, the noise building to an almost continuous roar just as the first flash of lightning struck. John caught only the briefest glimpse of his surroundings before the room was plunged back into darkness. He blinked rapidly, momentarily losing his night vision.

A low rumble of thunder sounded somewhere in the distance.

John stepped up alongside Sherlock. “It looks like a church, or something,” he said in a reverent whisper. His warm breath tickled Sherlock’s neck and made the boy visibly shiver.

“Not quite.” Sherlock answered , his voice coming back in echoes, distorted by the vast empty space. “It’s a little better than that, I think. Do you like it?”

“Perhaps if I could actually see it.” John squinted, hard, in the dark, as if narrowing his eyes even more would somehow help him to see things better. It didn’t. “So, if it’s not a church, but it’s still sort of looks like one, then what is it? He said, tapping a finger against his lip in thought.

“It began life as a folly, I believe, a couple of centuries ago,” Sherlock said, stepping away from John’s side. “Of course the original structure is all but gone now. My great-grandfather acquired the land as a young man and left it to my father when he died. All this,” Sherlock said, his arms outstretched, “was meant as a gift for my mother, reusing the stone from the original building. That was before…” Sherlock hesitated. “Anyway, few bad investments and father had to scale back on certain projects. This was one of the casualties.”

“Ah, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Sherlock spun around to face him, and John caught the brief flash of anger before it switched to cool indifference again. “Mother doesn’t give a fig. She’s always hated the place.”

“And so what, she gave it to you?”

“Not exactly,” Sherlock sighed. “But I do like it. It’s quiet out here, I can think, and it’s large enough to practice in should I wish to. And I’m the only one who gives a damn about the place so why shouldn’t it be mine?”

He sounded bitter, a little angry. There was definitely something deeper going on there.

“Sherlock, I…”

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to sound all snippy.”

“No it’s fine.” John said. “I get it. There’s no-one here to tell you what to do all the time, breathing down your neck every minute of the day…”

John cast around again. To be honest, it was little more than a shell, an outer structure, with a deep-grey Cornish slate roof to protect the interior from the elements. But inside…inside there was something undeniably special almost magical about the place, the large open space, the corners wreathed in a darkness too deep to penetrate and the way their voices came back to them in echoes. Sherlock moved out into the centre of the vast room putting even more space between them, steps made sure from memory and tipped his head back. John followed his line of sight, barely picking out the thick oak cross-beams above them. They were lost in too-deep shadow.

John scrunched his eyes tight-closed. It made him feel dizzy and disoriented, like he might pitch over. “You can’t see a bloody thing in here. Christ Sherlock. Are you _trying_ to hurt yourself, you idiot?”  Sherlock was spinning with his head thrown back, arms stretched wide. John fished his free hand down his front jeans pocket and pulled out his phone, turning on the torch function. He swept it across the floor in a careful arc. “This…Sherlock…this is…amazing.”

Sherlock stopped spinning and smiled. “Yes. I know. Want to see the best bit?”

And then, as if it were the most natural thing in the world for him to do, he caught hold of John’s hand in the dark. And it wasn’t just a basic hand-hold either. It was the full-on, fingers linked definitely not platonic kind.

Sherlock dragged John over to the Western corner where it looked, at first glance as if the ceiling had been lowered. It hadn’t. Angling the beam of light upward, John picked out the shape of a mezzanine floor. The staircase, which should have been on the right was missing, but in its place hung a thick length of rope. John wandered over and caught hold with his free hand. He gave it a sharp downward tug to test its strength. “You rigged this up yourself then? That’s a bit clever.”

“I may have had some help,” Sherlock said, looking both guilty and defiant. “Over the summer break just gone Victor filched a length of rope from the boat house at his old school as a bit of a fuck-you for kicking him out.” Sherlock shrugged. “I didn’t really care where it came from at the time, which was clearly a mistake. Victor’s favours always come with strings attached.”

With a graceful leap, Sherlock grabbed at a knot set just above head-height. He hung there for a moment enjoying the muscles in his arms flexing, and let the rope sway with his weight.

John stepped back to watch as Sherlock shimmied up the rope the rest of the way, moving swiftly hand over hand to the top. He leapt, cat-like over the edge and stood up again.

“Well,” he looked down, “are you coming up or not?”

“Hang on a sec,” John called out. “Oh…shit.”

The room plunged back into darkness as John switched off the torch and pocketed his phone again. He grabbed the rope just above the second knot and it strained against the thick oak balustrade pulling taught as he swung his legs up to follow. Working hand over hand, he hauled himself over the top and flopped, gasping for breath on his back at Sherlock’s feet. “Fuck,” he panted, “I think I just blew my arms out. And you didn’t even break a sweat. Jesus Christ, what _are_ you, some sort of superhuman?”

Sherlock looked rather smug. “Fitter than you for one…Oh my god, stop being such a baby,” he said, poking John in the side with his toe. “Get up.”

John grumbled something about how it was a Friday night, and how he ‘could’ve been having a pint right now’ without meaning a word of it. He could tell Sherlock wasn’t fooled in the slightest. If he didn’t want to be here with Sherlock right now, he would’ve tactfully ditched him when they walked past the pub, or even after Mary’s text. But instead, here they both were.

Sherlock turned his back and paced carefully into the shadows. Brushing his hand along the wall he found the switch he wanted and flipped it on. Strings of fairy lights illuminated the space like tiny stars, draped over every available surface. This was clearly Sherlock’s place, the one space in the world he’d said that was truly his. Everything that was here said something about him and meant something to him.  

“What do you think?” Sherlock worried at his lip as he waited for John’s verdict, both awkward and endearing.

“Amazing.” John said, and his eyes swept around trying to take everything in at once. In the middle of the mezzanine pushed back against the wall, was a thick double mattress propped up on a wooden frame, an untidy nest of blankets sat on top. Books were stacked in haphazard piles around the bed, roughly ordered by size and subject matter. Science, music, art, literature, anything that had caught Sherlock’s fancy if only for a fleeting moment. The only other furniture in the room was a tiny fold out desk and chair which served as a writing table, and a music stand.

“You must spend a lot of time here,” John said.

“What makes you say that?” Sherlock tilted his head, curious.

“Um, I don’t know. It looks sort of lived-in maybe?”

“Oh.” Sherlock sat down heavily on the mattress. “Is that a polite way to say it’s a mess? – because believe me, I know it is.”

“It’s very you in that case.”

“John Watson, are you calling me a mess?” Sherlock asked with a faint smirk, as he fished out an offending journal which had rudely poked him in the bottom. He tossed it over the side and it landed on the floor with a thump where it sat, splayed open, Sherlock’s spidery writing crowding every page. “Guilty as charged, I suppose.”

John glanced around and took in the general mess and disorder. It was probably the case that no-one but Sherlock ever came up here and that he wasn’t, as a rule, inclined toward tidying up after himself – a typical prima donna, and hence the book up his arse. John joined him on the mattress, knees cracking as he sat down.

He chuckled darkly. “Sorry, yes, maybe I am, just a bit. But it really is great up here.”

Mollified, at least for now, Sherlock relaxed and leaned back on his elbows. “There isn’t much more I can tell you really, other than what I already have. Anyway, it’s big enough to give me space to practice in if I need to, and there’s always my little den up here should I need to escape.”

“And what would _you_ need to escape from?” John asked, sprawling out a little more, head propped up against his hand.

“Oh, you know. Just stuff. People.” Sherlock shrugged. He was avoiding the question with a non-answer, John knew, but he didn’t want to push, not yet.

“And so this is where you had in mind, for the dance thing, the video shoot I mean?” he said instead, respectful of Sherlock’s sudden reticence and swiftly changed the subject.

“Yes. It’s ideal don’t you think, and it will look even better in daylight.”

“Don’t you get scared though,” John said. “Out here at night, on your own, I mean? It is pretty isolated.”

Sherlock’s brow creased in confusion, as if this was something he’d never considered before.

“I meant sleeping here, overnight. I thought you must do, given the bed and everything. Otherwise why go to all the trouble of hauling it up here?”

“Oh,” Sherlock smiled as if something had just occurred to him, “Well, you know beds aren’t just for sleeping in.”

Oh. _OH._

And a second too late Sherlock realised what he’d just implied. John could see it in his face, the way his eyes widened and how his mouth snapped shut, and then he was moving fast, scooting away from John’s side, backing across the mattress to get some distance between the two of them. Because somehow during the course of their short conversation, casually sitting a respectable distance apart had changed to shuffling a little closer and leaning in a bit more on the pretext of hearing the other speak, without either being fully aware they were doing it.

Of course John wasn’t some naive idiot, and given the timescale involved it didn’t take a massive mental leap to work out just who Sherlock might have been ‘not just sleeping’ on the mattress with, and although John knew it was none of his business the thought of it still stung.

“John,” Sherlock began. His voice was uncertain, full of apology that he didn’t owe John at all, that John really hadn’t earned yet. “You do know that Victor and me, we’re _really_ not…” Sherlock sighed. “He just stole a length of rope from his old school and helped me fix it up in here and…”

“Hey, I get it, its fine. You don’t need to explain…god, Sherlock.” John interrupted, and held out his hands palms face forward. “It’s not as if we’re…I mean this isn’t…” He trailed off and gestured between them feeling helpless and off-balance and more than a little bit foolish.

“No, okay, I suppose we aren’t…anything, are we?” Sherlock looked crestfallen, his voice suddenly devoid of its former warmth.  He pushed himself up on trembling arms and stalked away to a low-set window with a wide, deep sill, where he sat on the bare boards with his legs crossed and his arms laced around his body, hugging himself tight. “It’s getting rather late, and cold. Perhaps you should go.”

“And that’s…is that what you want, or do you want me to take you home?” John asked him, frustrated at the turn this conversation had taken. He really hadn’t meant to bring up Victor again, however inadvertently, and now Sherlock seemed really pissed off with him.

“Home?”

“Um yes?”

“But I am home.”

And now it was John’s turn to knit his brow in confusion. “What?”

“My parent’s house is ten minute walk, that way.” Sherlock gestured in a vague, Northerly direction. “So I already am home, unfortunately.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” said John, as a vaguely diabolical idea sprang to mind, “Let’s just say you had a flair for the dramatic and an insatiable urge to piss certain people off…what would you do?”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and sucked in his plump bottom lip as he turned John’s words over in his head. Then a grin of pure evil lit up his face like a beacon. “John Watson, I really think I like you.”

***

Sherlock’s house really was only minutes away, three to be precise, when you’re roaring down the driveway on a souped-up motorcycle with your arms wrapped around the most intriguing boy you never thought you would have the good fortune to stumble upon.

And when John set the brakes just a little too hard, fishtailing out and kicking gravel in an untidy arc, well that was just the icing atop a fuck-you Mycroft cake.

Sherlock swung a reluctant leg over the pillion seat and slithered to the ground again. He pulled off the helmet, handed it back to John again and tipped his head forward just a little, sticking his fingers in the tangled nest of curls and shaking them out in an unruly halo. When he glanced up again, slightly dizzy, John was staring slack-jawed with his eyebrows almost reaching to his hairline.

“Something wrong?” he asked, fighting back the urge to bite down on his bottom lip. John tracked the movement anyway, and cleared his throat. “Um, yeah, you’ve got….let me just…”

John leaned in and stretched out his free hand. His index finger hooked around an errant curl and brushed it gently back. Then that same fingertip traced a path along his cheekbone and down, down along his jaw. John’s eyes flicked back and forth across Sherlock’s face, and just when Sherlock really thought he might combust, his lips parted and he whispered, “Sherlock…can I just…?”

So predictably, that was the moment the hall lights chose to snap on, and just when they were getting to the good part, Sherlock fumed. Trust his fat-faced brother to stick his abnormally large nose in the middle of what had, mere seconds before, potentially been the best kiss of his life. Still, they struck a more than arresting tableau. John in his leather jacket, hair mussed and face flushed with guilt with his fingers still half caught in Sherlock’s tangled mop in a very un-platonic, semi-clinch.

The look of abject horror on Mycroft’s face almost made up for the absence of what would have been John’s lips on his, which he would now have to scheme and plot to finally get a taste of. Because John was looking at him, all apologetic and wistful before jamming that damn thing back on his head again and gunning the engine back to life. He tipped his fingers to his brow in an odd mock salute. “See you around then, Sherlock.”

“In. Now.”

Clutching his messenger bag to his chest, Sherlock shouldered his way roughly past Mycroft. “I hate you,” he growled through clenched teeth. “Why do you have to spoil bloody everything? I. Hate. You.”

“And this is not news to me Sherlock. You know how Mummy feels about…”

But Sherlock didn’t stay to listen, nor did he care what Mummy felt about anything in that moment. It was supposed to feel satisfying, the perfect chance to make Mycroft squirm by cavorting on the doorstep like some common tart, not like he’d just lost something good before it even had a chance to start. Because John wouldn’t try again, Sherlock was sure of it. Why on earth would he choose complicated, want Sherlock, want this bloody aggravation and all his emotionally stunted baggage when half the girls in their year would jump at the chance to lock lips with the Rugby captain, insinuating their socially acceptable curves right where Sherlock wanted to be?  

Once there were two flights of stairs, and a very loudly slammed and locked door between them, Sherlock finally felt the knot in his chest unfurl. He dumped his bag and flopped down on his back on the bed, pulling his phone from his pocket.

Molly would know what to do.

_I think I just fucked up. Again._

The reply came through within seconds, but it still made Sherlock startle.

God Sherlock. What did I tell you? Six feet safe minimum distance maintained at all times and at least two impartial witnesses J

_This is not the time for the smiley face for god’s sake._

_And this is not a Victor problem._

_This time._

Oh. My. God. – Who?

Sherlock sighed.

_It’s John. John Watson._

Rugby John? The short blond hottie - that one?

Sherlock clenched his teeth until his jaw hurt. His face felt hot and his eyes stung. This was unacceptable, this was completely and utterly awful – a disaster. This wasn’t supposed to happen to him.

_Yes. The very same._

But I didn’t think he was…you know

_Well, as it turns out, he is. And we may have just had an almost moment…_

Sherlock tapped at the screen again, spelling out words he never thought would come from him. Because Sherlock was always sure. Sherlock was never like…this.

_And I don’t know what to do next._

_Will you help me?_


End file.
